Turn of Phrase
by Alex Kade
Summary: Brandt is trying his hardest to cope in the aftermath of traumatic events.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Yes...I have another one. I have a problem! And I'm proud of it!

Can we guess where this falls in my timeline-of-all-my-stories-are-connected? Writing things out of order is fun. ...Or, at least it's fun if you like clue games, lol. If you don't, I apologize. At least I've written most of these so you don't really need to read any of the others to follow the story...

This one's a bit dark and heavy in the emotional department. You've been warned. And there's sailor mouth language. *shrug*

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><p><em>He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins.<em>

Bullshit. You don't feel it "coursing" through _shit_. Adrenaline isn't like a syrupy drug flowing sluggishly along in places it shouldn't be, making your body and mind do things they're not made to do naturally. Adrenaline is what happens in a flash of panic just before that drug starts doing its damage, and you know shit's about to hit the fan. Adrenaline slaps you in the face just as hard as that punch you just threw at that guy who was about take a shot at your friend. You don't feel it coming, don't even really know it's there until everything's said and done, until after you've fought or you've fled. You feel it draining. Yeah. _That's _when you fucking feel it - when the danger's over or you're too tired to care anymore, and your heart's beating so hard in your chest that you think it's knocking on your ribcage trying to get the hell out; and your hands won't stop shaking because you realize you just did either the most amazing thing and you're still riding the thrill high, or you just managed to get through one hell of a traumatic ordeal and the thought of ever having to repeat it makes you want to puke your guts out. _That's _how adrenaline really feels.

_**~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~**_

He put his pen down and folded his hands over the top of the journal, sliding it just a little closer to his body. It looked like the others were still writing so he kept his head ducked, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He failed.

"Agent Brandt? Are you finished?"

That woman's voice grated on his nerves. It wasn't her pitch or tone that did it - nothing quite so easily identifiable - but she had that way of making a kid want to piss himself when the teacher called his name in class to answer a question he didn't know shit about.

Brandt cleared his throat before answering. "Y-yes. Should I _not _be done?"

Her eyes darted around at the other…patients?...trainees?...screw-ups? He didn't even know what to call the group he had been forced to fall into; the only thing he know was that they were there because they couldn't keep their shit together…and he was apparently the only one that didn't feel the need to write out some grand adventure that dealt with riding an adrenaline high.

_React to the phrase. _Those were the directions. He reacted. He was done. That was that, end of story. Maybe that was the problem. He _hadn't_ written a story. A story wasn't a gut reaction, though, it wasn't shouting out the first thing on a person's mind when they looked at an inkblot. A story was about the time Asshole "A" went cliff diving with Idiot "B" and they all pretended like they could feel adrenaline coursing through their veins because they didn't know the difference between what adrenaline and a fucking crack-high felt like, and they told their moronic stories using big flowery words to impress the...instructor?...therapist?...prison ward?...the bitch that pretended like she understood what was going on inside their heads when they fell asleep praying the coming nightmare might only include one torture session this time; and maybe, just maybe, the rotting corpses of his friends wouldn't be dancing around his sacrificial altar chanting their accusations that it was all his fault.

"Agent Brandt?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

Her left eyebrow went up. That was the one she used when she was thinking, _You didn't catch that because you were off in Crazy Alice Mirrorland not paying attention to a fucking word I was saying, but I'm not allowed to tell you that so I'm just going to stand here and look slightly pissed off at you about it._

"I asked if I could take a look at what you wrote," she repeated, or at least he assumed she was repeating whatever she had said earlier. She could be having a whole different conversation with him than the one he had completely lapsed on. Not that he gave a flying fuck.

"No," he answered in a casual manner. "You said these were private unless we wanted to share. I don't want to share."

Now the other assholes had all stopped writing. They weren't done. They were just trying to stick their dicks where they didn't belong.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back a little bit. _You had better say yes to the next thing I ask or I'm not giving you your gold star for the day._

"Can you just hold up the book with the page open so I can see that you at least attempted to write something? I can't mark you as having completed this session if you didn't write anything."

Using only one hand, he slid out the book, opened it back to the bookmarked page, and flashed it at her for a full two seconds before snapping it shut and tucking it back beneath his other arm. "You happy now?"

And there was the tight smile. _No. I hate my job, I hate working with pricks like you who shouldn't ever be going back into the field you're so fucked up, and I hate having to pretend that I'm actually here to help you. I want my paycheck, and I want to go home._

"Yes. Thank you, Agent Brandt." She turned away from him, much to his relief. "Now, does anyone else who is finished wish to share?"

The douche in the front desk raised his hand, actually _raised his hand_ like they were in the fucking first grade. Acknowledged by what's-her-face-who-didn't-give-a-shit-about-them-so-why-should-he-bother-to-learn-her-name, the douche stood up and started reading his response.

"The best adrenaline rush I've ever had was the first time I went skydiving. I was standing there on the plane with my parachute on, my best friend right next to me, and I could feel this warmth spreading through my body…"

Brandt snorted and shook his head, wondering what the guy had done to wind up in the group. Probably got caught getting drunk in the bathroom at headquarters and this was his makeshift AA meeting. The half-assed, reward-cookies-for-good-behavior program might actually work for that guy. Not for Brandt, though. Not for those two in the corner whose eyes were as full of ghosts as his were.

He had to stifle a chuckle. The damn government could pay for floating magnetic suits and machines that made the most intricate masks, but wouldn't send them to specialized therapy. People like Brandt, like those two poor schmucks in the corner, needed someone to talk to who's _been there. _They needed to see the hints of the same ghosts in a person's eyes, a person who fought off the horrors and won. Until then, they were just biding their time with a what's-her-face so she could sign them off as clear for duty. The IMF would take the signature as gospel.

Ethan would take one look at Brandt and know it was total bullshit.

Maybe tomorrow he'd try a little harder to participate in the writing exercise…


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews, guys! Wasn't quite sure how y'all would respond to this one. It's a bit...different...from the standard story, lol. Thanks for reading, and sorry for the emotionals it may cause. :)

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><p><em>Play the hand you're dealt.<em>

Whoever made up that one is a goddamn moron. Go ahead. Tell a poker player to just play the hand. See what happens. That's like telling a baseball player to swing at every pitch just for the hell of it. Sure, he might get a lucky hit on a bad throw once in a while. Odds are better he'll strike out, or swing at a speedball aimed too close to his body and get his fucking knuckles cracked wide open. There goes _that _guy's career for the rest of the season. You don't play the hand you're dealt unless you're one of those lucky bastards who gets that Straight Flush right out of the gate. Odds of that happening before you die of old age or the dealer shoots you in the face because he's tired of you taking up a seat at his table? Go buy a lottery ticket; you might have better luck. You don't play the fucking hand you're dealt. No. You ditch your shitty cards, hope you get better ones, fold when you're about to lose your entire life's fucking fortune, or if you're good enough to not get caught, you cheat. You cheat whenever you goddamn can if you know everything's on the line. Dicking around with a bunch of buddies in a garage when you're betting with the bottle caps from your case of beer? Go ahead. Play the hand you're dealt. Make a fucking drinking game out of it – the guy who lays down the worst hand takes a shot. You'll all be puking drunk in an hour. In the real world? You play to fucking win. You play to fucking live.

_**~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~**_

Brandt moved to put his pencil down, but a slight cough from the corner drew his attention to one of those other guys with the haunted eyes. The slightest eye contact was made before the man looked down at his own hands. His pencil was moving along at a steady pace. Brandt squinted, looked closer, and flashed the tiniest of grins. The tip of the pencil wasn't touching the fucking page.

She-bitch glanced his way and he adjusted in his seat, then went back to "writing," mimicking the pencil-off-paper trick. He felt her eyes boring holes through him for another few seconds before she walked off to harass somebody else with her mental criticisms.

How about that? He was going to get his gold star for the day, after all. Why? 'Cause that other guy was cheating to win and was nice enough to teach him how. That guy wasn't playing his fucking cards any more than Brandt was.

"Does someone want to share their piece? Agent Brandt?"

He slouched in his seat, crossed his arms, stretched one leg out beneath the desk, cocked his head, and gave her his best winning smile. "You just _love _to single me out, don't you?"

Her right eye twitched ever so slightly. _You are making my job difficult, and I hate you for that._

"I'm trying to involve you in the group. So far you've been rather closed off, and I'm a bit concerned about that."

Brandt stared at her with that winning smile long enough to make her fingers tick just slightly, his proof that he had made her uncomfortable, before he shrugged. "Okay. I'll share."

"Would you like to stand up to read?"

"Nope." He picked up his book and cleared his throat. "Play the hand you're dealt. I got served the wrong thing at a restaurant last week, and decided I was too hungry to send it back and wait for the right order. Plus, I didn't feel like arguing with the fucking waitress over getting chicken instead of pork, because really, who gives a shit? So I ate my wrong order, and you know what? It was good. I'll probably order it again. In fact, I'll probably order it every time I go back to that place; and it was alllll thanks to playing the hand I was dealt. The end."

She frowned at him. "That was your first initial thought upon reading the prompt?"

"Yup."

He made himself look too damn confident to argue with. She gave him a curt nod. "Well done, Agent Brandt. Would anyone else like to share?"

Mr. First Grader raised his hand again. Fucking ass kiss. Probably had a schoolboy crush on devil-woman.

Another cough had Brandt looking back at his fellow cheater. The guy smiled and gave him a tiny thumb's up. Brandt gave the guy a crooked grin in return. He wondered how many times that man had been through a program like this, and was glad to have found an ally; but simultaneously hoped he'd never see the guy again once this was all over and done with. If he did, it would probably be a reunion within the program, which would mean he hadn't gotten over his shit. He had to get over his shit. He couldn't work with his team if he didn't.

Maybe tomorrow he'd actually read what he wrote instead of making up a smartass story.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Sorry, guys! I said this was a darker one. You were warned! Our favorite boy is _not_ okay in this fic! But he can get there...'cause, well, clearly he's back to pretty much normal in the fics that fall later in my little convoluted timeline, lol. Thanks for reviews. I heart you all!

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><p>"<em>My dear, you have to learn to cherish the little things," she said.<em>

Cherish the little things? You're going to sit there and tell a kid to cherish the little things…right. Why don't you give them some examples, huh? Let them decide whether they should be thankful for being able to see that fucking, huge-ass truck headed their way in time to get out of the fucking road, or if they should "cherish" that microscopic, invading parasite that destroys their body from the inside out, and there's not a damn thing they can do about it. How about the difference between a baseball bat you might be able to dodge while it's swinging at your head, and that tiny little piece of metal that'll blow your brains out before you even realize it's coming out of the gun? You want them to ignore the fact that they can clearly see that snarling, drooling, lunging dog in time to cross to the other side of the road so they don't get fucking mauled? You'd really prefer it if they were strolling along, smiling and "cherishing" that tiny little hornet they're deathly allergic to? Go ahead, give them that advice while they're dying in your arms from lack of oxygen, while their lungs are on fire and their eyes feel like they're going to explode out of their heads from the pressure, all because of one tiny little needle prick. Sting. I meant sting, from the hornet.

_**~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~**_

Brandt dropped his pencil and propped his elbows on the desk, ducking his head beneath his hands for a few seconds. He blew out a long breath, ran his hands through his hair, and picked up the pencil again.

"Age-"

"_Please_, don't. Not right now," he muttered to…to the program director. God, he didn't even have enough fire left in him at the moment to insult her inside his own head.

Surprisingly, she simply nodded and walked away, leaving him alone with his twisted thoughts. They _were _twisted; he wouldn't deny it. That's why he was here, after all, to try to work through the mess inside that didn't quite heal when the rest of his body did.

He drew a big "X" through his writing and started again.

_**~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~**_

Things that are small that you should cherish:

The cherry in the bottom of a tall glass of Bacardi on the rocks.

That hidden lock pick you keep in the hem of your sleeve just in case.

The ballpoint pen appearing right when you see your chance to-

_**~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~**_

His hand was shaking slightly. He watched it for a second, feeling the weakness it represented. The fire sprang back to life in a raging inferno, and before he could control it, the anger urged him to jump to his feet and launch the pencil across the room where it stuck halfway into the thin wall. He froze, breathing hard, ducking his head so he couldn't see the incriminating looks. All eyes were on him, all except the other cheater's. That guy kept writing away as if nothing had happened, and Brandt focused on the sound of the pencil sliding across the paper – actually touching it this time, not floating above it. The noise of being ignored, of being accepted, centered him much better than the accusing stares.

"Sorry," he breathed, and gave the program director the slightest of glances. "I need to… I finished the assignment."

"Clearly," the woman replied as she eyed the wall. "Take your seat."

Brandt shook his head in frustration. "No, you don't under- I think I should probably go for the day."

"You'll leave when the session is over, just like everybody else, Agent Brandt. Please take your seat." She gestured towards his desk.

Uncertain, and still feeling the burn of shame, anger, and a little bit of just straight obstinance, he paced back in forth in the small space beside the desk, once again running a hand through his hair. It took him several more seconds to calm himself down, after which he reluctantly lowered himself into the chair. It wouldn't do to walk out without permission. It wasn't worth failing the program.

"Thank you," the fucking ice queen said, and he swore he caught a touch of sarcasm in her tone.

He hated her. He hated being in that desk. He hated the fucking journal sitting there in front of him with all his fucked up feelings locked away inside. He hated the thought that he'd been abandoned there to deal with her and that and everything from before all by himself. He hated that he was too damned embarrassed to make the first call. He hated the way that _other _guy was watching him now. Not his new ally, but the third in the happy little trio of freaks who really needed more than a journal and a gold star.

Was there _pity _in that guy's eyes? Pity and something else…

Brandt decided that guy wasn't going to be an ally. The thought made him feel the crushing weight of seclusion that much more.

Maybe he'd make a call, after all. Not to talk about this, or about him, but just to hear something utterly unimportant, some nonsense about nothing that had no bearing on anything. He needed to get out of his own head for a while.

He'd call Benji when he got back to his room. That was the goal, anyway. It was possible – probable – that he'd pick up the phone and just put it back down without talking to anybody.

Standing up slowly, a little sheepishly, he walked across the room to the front desk in order to get another pencil from the cup. No one said anything to him, purposely keeping their eyes off him this time as he returned to his seat and opened his journal back up. He drew another "X" through the second entry for the day, and simply wrote:

_Call Benji. Talk to him about the little things._

Maybe if it was written down he'd actually do it this time.

Maybe.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Let's give you guys a lil break, yeah? This one's a little change of pace from the others...

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><p>Benji groaned and put a pillow over his head, wanting desperately to just ignore the phone call coming in at 1:30 in the bloody morning. One of the biggest downfalls of being an IMF agent? He wasn't <em>allowed<em> to just ignore phone calls coming in a 1:30 in the bloody morning.

He snaked a hand out from under the pillow, snagged his cell off the end table, and pulled it to his ear. "What is it this time? Chemical warfare? Some sort of massive EMF pulse that'll throw the world into utter chaos? The zombie apocalypse? Whatever it is, can the crisis not wait until the sun is alive?"

He was met by silence on the other end. Throwing the pillow off his face, he propped himself up on one elbow.

"Hello?" Again, there was silence. "Look, if you don't say something, I'm going to have to hang up."

A small, sharp intake of breath came through as if the person on the other end was about to say something, but then decided at the last second not to. It was a familiar sound, one Benji had heard many times before when a certain analyst was stopping himself from going into some long scenario spiel that he realized no one would be interested in hearing. It'd been too long since Benji had heard that sound.

Propping up his pillows behind him, he made himself comfortable as he started talking. "Hey, Brandt. I heard this great joke today. Do you want to hear it? I don't know why I bother asking, really. I'm going to tell it, anyway. So these three agents walk into a bar – uh, not _literally _walk into it. It's not that kind of joke, because any good agent would be too aware of his surroundings to run themselves into a stationary object-" Soft laughter cut him off, and he smiled at that. "I haven't gotten to the punchline yet. You're laughing too early."

There was a hesitation before his friend finally spoke back, albeit quietly, almost like he was testing his permission to continue. "I…um…" He laughed again, the sound nervous and airy, but it was still laughter. "I pretty much ran into a post at the…at the train yard when I first met you guys. Ethan and I were…we were pacing the car and I wasn't paying attention."

Benji scoffed. "That doesn't count. It's hard to try jumping onto a moving vehicle and watch where you're going at the same time. These three agents are just on a bit of a jaunt, going to get a drink in celebration of just coming off a mission. They would clearly be able to see a metal bar in time to duck-"

"What mission?" Brandt asked, sounding a little more confident.

The tech blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Oh…um…you know, a regular-type mission. Um…they just had to…had to retrieve all the stolen…stolen…"

"Slot machines," Brandt offered.

"What?"

"Slot machines. The bad guys grabbed all the slot machines in Vegas, and without them, the economy would be thrown into total chaos."

Benji barked out a laugh of his own. "Alright, slot machines it is, then. The agents just successfully returned all the slot machines they retrieved from the clutches of the evil villains."

"They should have a name."

"Right, a name. Of course. We can't have a villain league that doesn't have an official name. I'm thinking….Baron Weevil and the Killoforce."

"Perfect."

The two went back and forth for a couple hours just trading details on what was becoming the most ridiculous mission story of all time. Benji never wound up actually getting to tell his joke, as they had both completely forgotten about it by the time the plot of their legendary tale had all been sorted out. As they wrapped up, the tech had to wipe a tear out of his eye, he was laughing so hard.

"Well that was probably the most fun 1:30 wake-up call I've ever had," he chuckled.

"Yeah…sorry about that," Brandt answered, sobering up. "I should've waited… I forgot about the time zone…"

"Hey, don't worry about it. You call whenever you need to, especially if this is how the conversations are going to go." Benji cringed before continuing, wondering if the next thing he was about to say would be pushing it. "We miss having you around, you know? Do you know when…um...when you'll be bett- back? I mean back."

Brandt sighed. "I should let you get back to sleep."

With an understanding nod, Benji translated the signal that Brandt had had enough, and spoke reluctantly to end the call. "Right, well, it was great hearing from you, man. Keep in touch, alright?"

"I'll try," Will answered. "Tell the others I said hi."

The line went dead after that. In response, Benji dropped the phone, blew out a long breath, rubbed his face with his hands, and picked up the cell again. Ethan and Jane would want to know that their lost lamb was finally making some progress. He hoped it was a sign that Brandt would be coming back to them soon. They just weren't the same team without him.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Just wanted to send a quick thanks to not only the reviewers, but to those who have alerted and favorited this one. I wasn't really sure how it'd be received, so I'm glad some of you folks out there like it, lol!

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><p><em>Everything happens for a reason.<em>

_**~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~**_

"Agent Brandt, this isn't a music class."

He jumped slightly at the calling of his name, then looked down to see that he had been furiously tapping the desk with the end of his pencil. "Sorry," he mumbled, forcing his hand to hold the writing utensil still as he stared again at the prompt.

Making them react to something like that was the most idiotic thing he could imagine with a group of people like this. Were they actually supposed to agree with the statement? Or did Ms. Moron McBitch want another pencil stuck in her wall? …Which was strangely enough still there… He wondered if she'd left it on purpose just to remind him that he'd so easily lost his cool over a simple writing exercise. He couldn't afford to do that in the field…

A sense of being watched sent a little electric shock through his system, firing up the warning bells that led to faster reflexes that had kept him alive on more than one occasion on mission. Outwardly, the only response he showed to the knowledge that someone was studying him was to take a quick glance around the room, scanning everyone in barely the time it took to blink.

The two in the corner again. He should've guessed – should've _known_, actually. Nobody else bothered unless he was making another spectacle of himself, or the Ringmaster was trying to tame him with her invisible whip. They were probably afraid he'd flip out and the next pencil would wind up being shoved through…

He swallowed past the sudden urge to vomit and looked again at the two who were still staring at him. What did they want, anyway? His ally had a glimmer of an encouraging smile floating around in those dark eyes, encouraging and totally understanding. The man gave him a slight nod, and was that the start of a tear at the corner of his eye? It made Will uncomfortable. He caught the gaze of the other man, the one whose light blue eyes looked like bottomless, clear pools of despair. Hoping his own eyes didn't look like that, Brandt realized with some confusion that the guy was waiting for him to make a move, waiting to see what "the crazy one in class" was going to do with the prompt. That was a joke-and-a-half. Will, so fucked up that he could barely handle a simple call to his best friend, was somebody else's shining example of how to handle a situation that he had no clue what to do with. If he _did _throw another pencil, would that guy follow in his stead?

He chuckled a little. The idea of walking into the room one day with the walls all looking like somebody had turned a porcupine inside-out was amusing to him. Benji would've appreciated the humor in that. Maybe he'd call again – at a decent hour, this time – and tell him about it.

Deciding to lead by proper example, he focused back on his paper and made himself write something.

_**~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~**_

Fate…karma…it can't possibly work like that, can it? How can a person so selflessly risk themselves to protect an innocent just to wind up being rewarded with something that'll fuck them up for the rest of their lives? What's the purpose of that? The reason? What good could _possibly _come from the nightmares that'll hit you out of the blue years down the line when you think you're over it? How could the risk of being thrown into addiction or possibly a drug-induced coma if you get the wrong medical treatment be the end result fate or karma or whatever had in mind for you? Are you supposed to try to look ahead at where the road could lead? Maybe this one incident fucks you up so bad that you can't ever go back to the job you love, to the people that make your life worth living, and you have to start completely over in a strange place with strange people who might one day do something to make all this worthwhile – is that how you're supposed to think? Look ahead and hope that the rock that you just tripped over made you land on your face in a pile of golden shit? It makes it okay because it's gold, right? Fuck that. It's not okay. It's not even fair. That trip over that fucking rock broke your leg so bad that you'll never walk on it quite right ever again. You won't be able to run that marathon you were practicing so hard for, or backpack across Europe, or climb that fucking mountain that's been challenging you since you were a kid. Your dreams are all shattered, and for what? You land in a pile of golden shit and you're just supposed to make new ones? Start over from scratch and screw everything that came before? And what if that pile of golden shit isn't even there? Then what do you do? What do you do with your busted leg and your shattered dreams? Pick up the pieces and wait for someone to come along with a bottle of glue? That's another one of these stupid phrases, right? Pick up the pieces? Are we going to have to respond to that one next? What if the pieces aren't big enough to pick up? What if they've been crushed to nothing but powder, and you're sitting there scared to death that if you sneeze it'll all just blow away, and you'll be left with absolutely nothing. _You _are nothing. Great fucking trade for playing the suffering hero. Where's the reason in that, huh? Seriously, someone tell me the fucking reason, because hell if I can figure it out.

_**~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~MI~**_

He sniffled and laid his pencil down, staring at his words for a few seconds. Without asking permission this time, he simply got up quietly, tucked his journal under his arm, and walked out the door. There was no harpy voice following behind him, demanding his return, which surprisingly left him feeling a little lost. Maybe he wanted that, wanted to find something to get him riled up, have something to argue over. Now he was left standing out in the hall with a journal full of his darkest thoughts, nowhere to go, and no one to talk to.

There was a spot in the building just around the corner, a little nook with a small, stained-glass window that filtered rainbow colored sunlight down onto a pedestal. On the stone column sat a single yellow rose, blossoming in a vase painted with gold-lined rose leaves. Brandt slid between the pedestal and the window, lowering himself to the ground so that any passersby wouldn't see him sitting there behind that symbol of hope. He leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at that rose for a few seconds before he felt that obnoxious, uninvited burn in his eyes. Blinking a few times, he tried to push it back down, to make it disappear, to be the strong person he was supposed to be, but this was one of those times when emotion was going to win over pride.

He drew up his knees and hid his head under one arm. The other hand dropped the journal to the floor and reached into his back pocket, drawing out his phone. He didn't even think about what he was doing as he pressed a button on his speed dial.

"Agent Carter," the voice on the other end answered, all business. He winced, remembering that he had blocked his number, wishing he hadn't so that he wouldn't have to say anything.

"Jane?" he choked out, hating that in that one word, in the speaking of her name, she'd know he was crying like the weak nobody that he had been reduced to. …But that happened for fucking _reason_, right?

"Hey, Brandt," she answered, her voice soft, caring, but not at all judgmental. She said nothing more, waiting for him to make the first move.

And so he did.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews and sticking with me on this one! Our boy is starting to open up some more here. It's sad, but it's a good thing. :)

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><p>"Jane?"<p>

Her heart dropped in her chest at the lost sound of his voice, and she immediately turned around to head back to her car. The client she was due to meet with could wait – the others would understand.

"Hey, Brandt," she said softly as she walked, wanting nothing more than to ask him five thousand questions about what had gotten him so upset, but knowing there was really only one answer to that. Instead, she slipped into her car quietly, gently shut the door, and waited for him to speak to her.

"I hate this," he practically whispered after several long minutes ticked by where she could tell he was trying to get himself back under control. "Why is this so fucking hard?"

God, what she wouldn't give to fly down to that facility and just hold him. He had been an absolute wreck in the hospital, barely a shadow of his old self once they had let him out of detox, and the IMF had pretty much shipped him off to therapy the second he seemed to have both feet on the ground. It wasn't fair. He needed his family, not a bunch of strangers telling him how he should feel.

"Brandt, what you went through-" she started, but he cut her off.

"-wasn't even real. None of it was r…" He sniffed and was silent for another minute. "How can I be so fucked up over _nothing_?"

It angered her that he was talking that way. What was his therapist doing? "Hey, it _wasn't _nothing, okay? Don't think that, not ever. The stuff that man put into you…most people couldn't have survived that, let alone what was real for _you_. You're strong. You beat that, you can get through this."

"I don't think I can." His voice cracked as he spoke.

"Yes, you can," she asserted. "Now tell me what happened. Something must have or else you wouldn't be calling me. Whose ass do I need to kick?"

He laughed at that. It sounded a little bitter, a little forced, but there was a trace of humor in it. Despite that, his tone was still full of defeated melancholy when he replied. "I'd put money on you wiping the floor with her face, but no, you can't beat her up. I need her to clear me for duty."

She swallowed back her continual rising anger. She wondered if he even realized he had just countered his own 'I can't' attitude with that last admission. He _wanted _to come back, and was willing to get through the program to do it. "Let's hear it for the government shrinks," she bit out sarcastically. "What'd she do?"

He blew out a long, shuddering breath, coughed once, and cleared his throat. "It's not…I mean it _is, _but not exactly…She's not the one…" He let out a little frustrated growl and started again. "She's just following protocol. I think she hates it as much as I do."

"And she's taking it out on you?" Jane asked.

He snorted. "Does being a smartass automatically paint a target on my forehead?"

She smirked, glad to hear that familiar snark creeping back into his voice. "No excuse, so tell me what happened. I need to know what I'm slapping her for once you're in the clear."

The quiet that followed was another long one, and she almost wondered if he was going to change his mind about talking to her. Benji had warned them about pushing him too much, but she got the feeling that this time he _wanted _to be pushed. He needed to talk to someone, and clearly his therapy director wasn't doing the job.

"We have this…exercise," he started hesitantly, then fell quiet yet again. When he eventually spoke, he completely changed directions on her, and his question caught her off guard. "Do you believe everything happens for a reason?"

"I…um…" She wasn't sure how to answer him. She knew the wrong words held the possibility of shutting him off to her, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. "I…think maybe _some _things do, but-"

"What about Hanaway? Did he die for a reason?"

She shut her eyes. Wrong answer, apparently. She had pressed the wrong button, and he returned fire with a painful blow. Sucking in a breath to fight back against that still-raw wound, she proceeded with caution.

"There is _nothing _about his death that will ever be okay, but-" She waited to see if he'd try to cut her off again. He was silent, listening, so she kept going. "-but if he hadn't…if he hadn't died, I wouldn't have been teamed up with you guys. Brandt, there isn't a day that goes by that I'm not grateful for having Benji, and Ethan, and _you _at my back. Sometimes some pretty shitty things happen, and maybe there _is_ no reason for it except just simple bad luck; but sometimes something good _does _come out of it. Most of the time you have to _make _something good come out of it. Do you understand?"

Had it not been for the timer still ticking away on her phone she would've thought maybe he had hung up on her. Holding her breath, she sat still and waited for his reply as if any swift movement on her end, miles away, would scare him off like he was some kind of wild animal.

"Sorry," he finally said, almost too quiet for her to hear. "I shouldn't have…I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she said almost as softly.

"No," he breathed out, "no, it's not. I should go."

She sat up straighter in her seat. "Brandt, don't-"

"Jane, I need to go. There's only so long a grown man can hide in a corner before someone calls the loony car on him."

"Will-"

"Thanks for humoring me. Really. I'm not being sarcastic, I promise. Take care, and, uh, don't tell the guys I was crying, okay? Thanks."

The line went dead, and she stared at the phone for a second before tossing it onto the seat beside her and resting her head on the steering wheel. She honestly had no idea whether she had done anything at all to improve his state of mind, or if she had just royally fucked up and made things worse. All she could do now was wait to see if he gave her or any of the others another call.

And when he came back to them with his 'all clear' notice in his hands, she was going to kill that fucking shrink.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **I have been gone for a zillion years! I'm sorry! I moved to Los Angeles, got a job as a big General Manager for an all new business opening up soon, and have pretty much been buried in work. I haven't forgotten about my stories, though, just had to take a step back for real life biz. I'll try to do better!

In the meantime, there be lots of good stories over on The Beta Branch from our other talented writers. Stop on by over there, read some stuff, edit some stuff, write some stuff to be edited, whatever. We're a fun bunch. :) thebetabranch . prophpbb . com

Annnnnd, just because I'm feeling generous and it's been such a long time, I'll clue you in on some things that might be a little confusing in here. For all those who haven't figured it out yet, all of my M:I stories connect to one another. I've been writing them out of order in the timeline, but there are lil hidden clues and bits you can find that'll help you puzzle out the order of things. For this chapter you may want to go back and check out my very first story, "Surviving the 80's." And for the people who asked and already figured it out, yes, this whole story takes place following the events of "Violent Redemption" which has yet to reach the really bad things that cause Brandt to get to the state he's in now.

* * *

><p>Benji glanced at the caller ID on his cell and did a double-take before quickly snatching it up.<p>

"Brandt! I was afraid you wouldn't call after…nevermind, forget I said that. How are you?"

The response was much louder than the tech expected, and he had to pull the phone away from his ear slightly. "Benji! I remembered to call before you hit the sack today! Do I get my gold star for that?"

The odd laughter followed by the sound of something clinking against glass made Benji close his eyes. "Brandt, are you drinking?"

"Maybe. Does it matter? I didn't sign anything that said I couldn't get shit-faced while I was here."

"No, but do you think that's the best idea while you're-"

"Alone?" Will chuckled. "I'm not. I'm talking to _you. _I mean, it'd be better if you were down here… Why _don't _you come down here? We'll make a night of it. It's only like an hour flight, hour and a half, right?"

Benji sighed, wishing it were just that simple. "I'm not home, Brandt. We're, um, we're on assignment. At the very least it would take four hours to get there, and we have a meeting Jane had to reschedule for tomorrow morning."

"Reschedule? What made her have to reschedule?" There was a pause before he sucked in a breath. "Wait, was that supposed to be today? Did I interrupt a mission?"

With a silent groan, Benji inwardly kicked himself. He wished the analyst wasn't always so damn sharp, and that his own mouth would stop spewing out words before he could think things through. "No, no, it's fine. The client was…well, he was busy, anyway. It was best all around that we had to postpone, for everyone. Tomorrow is…it's _way _better. It'll be fine."

"She's never going to talk to me again," Brandt moaned out slowly.

Ice hit glass again, making Benji flinch. "Now you know that's not true. One botched meeting isn't-"

"You don't know what I said to her." That fast, Will's tone flipped from jovially drunk back to the lost, defeated one he had been mostly using since he had woken up in the hospital. "She probably hates me."

"She doesn't _hate _you, Will. Nobody does. I told you already, we're all antsy to have you back. In fact - and don't tell anyone I told you - we've even got plans for a surprise 'Welcome Back' party as soon as you get out."

"Yeah, well don't plan too big. I fucked up today," Brandt said quietly. "I walked out."

Benji paused. "Walked out…walked out of where? The program?"

There was a long sigh and the sound of more liquid being poured. "Pretty much."

"Wait…you _pretty much _walked out, or you _did _walk out? There's a difference." Ethan moving past in the hall caught Dunn's attention, so he softly snapped his fingers, calling the team leader over. He ushered Hunt to sit close, and put the phone on speaker.

"Might as well be the same thing. I walked out before the session was over. I did _not _get my gold star for the day. The bitch'll probably flunk me for that. She's been gunning for me since day numero uno." He took another sip of whatever he was drinking. "Yep, I am _done. _You guys might as well start looking for a replacement, 'cause I'm pretty sure she had a big fucking smile on her face while she was stamping my file as 'unfit for duty.' Hooray for the government looking out for their own, right?"

"That's enough, Brandt," Ethan said quietly.

The glass fell and they could hear it shatter. "Shit," Brandt hissed. "Ethan, I didn't- _Shit! _Dammit, Benji, why did you-? _Fuck! _Sorry, I'm sorry, Ethan. I didn't mean to walk. I wasn't thinking. I was just-"

"Relax, Will, I'm sure it'll be fine," Hunt continued in a neutral tone. "I'll call down in the morning, make sure you're still on track. I'd be willing to bet you aren't the first one to walk out on a session."

There was a long silence. "I also threw a pencil partway through a wall."

Ethan and Benji exchanged a worried look. "Before you left?"

"No…yesterday. It's still in the wall."

Ethan smirked. "I think if they let you back in after that, they'll probably let you stick around for cutting class early."

"What if there's some sort of three strikes rule?" Brandt argued.

Hunt shrugged his shoulders. "Then don't strike out."

"You make it sound so simp- Ow! Dammit!"

Benji sat forward. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just…" Brandt's breath hitched and sped up a little. "I just cut myself on the…on the glass… I…_geezus_, please, not again…"

"Brandt, what's going on?" Ethan demanded, growing more concerned as his agent's breathing became more erratic. His heart skipped a beat when the horribly familiar chant carried softly through the phone.

"It's not real. It's not real. Oh, god, it's not real…"

Hunt snatched the phone from Benji's grasp and stood up. "Brandt, listen to me. Listen to my voice. Whatever you're seeing isn't there, just like you said. It's not real. Do you hear me?"

"…Yes." The answer came out in a shaky breath. "Christ…it's not… Where are you guys?"

Before Ethan could answer, the phone was taken from his hand as quickly as he had stolen it from Benji's. Jane spoke to Brandt, but was looking directly at the team leader. "We're coming. Just sit tight. We'll be there in a few hours."

Benji watched Ethan, and let out a little sigh of relief when Hunt answered Jane's declaration with a nod. Without waiting for instructions, he sat back down in front of his computer to make the necessary arrangements with the IMF. This mission wasn't exactly a high-risk one, assigned to Hunt's team with the knowledge that they wouldn't be on their A-game until their fourth member was back in the fold. Another team could handle it just as easily.

"Benji?" Brandt got out between panicked breaths.

Jane shoved the phone in the tech's face. "Talk to him." She slipped away as soon as her hand was free of the cell, moving quickly to help Ethan get their gear packed.

Benji took the phone off speaker. "Probably going to rethink that drinking idea, huh?" he tried to joke.

Brandt didn't laugh. "Stupid…so fucking stupid."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, mate. You happen to be one of the brightest people I know." There was a muffled thud followed by a small, frustrated cry. "Brandt? Are you still with me?"

"I keep…I keep seeing… There was so much blood…"

Benji wondered which memory his friend was caught in, knowing that there had been more that Will would probably never tell them about. "We can just wash it off, though, right? You can stand up, go to the kitchen - or the bathroom, whichever is closer - and rinse it off your hand, right? Brandt?"

"Right…right…just wash…" Thankfully, it sounded as if Brandt was moving, and a few seconds later Benji could hear water running. Time ticked by filled with only the analyst's continual unsteady breathing, and then it was replaced by an odd humming.

Benji furled his brow. "Is that-"

"Yeah," Brandt interrupted. "Sorry…I'm not supposed…" He sucked in a long, shuddering breath. "You told me I shouldn't…but I thought it was over, Benji. I thought you were dead…_I _was dead… I sang it…sang it…for that time…"

After a startled hesitation, the tech nodded his head. "Well none of us are dead," he said softly. "Why don't we sing something else?"

"No." The water continued to run. "I don't want… You promised, remember?"

"Right, our secret. I won't sing, then. That way the others won't find out. How about I make requests, instead? Is that acceptable? If they ask I'll just tell them we're playing a game, naming our favorite songs, something like that."

There was a lengthy pause. "Yeah, okay. Go ahead."

"Can you turn the water off? It's hard to hear…" Benji hoped he wasn't taking a long shot, and was glad when the faucet stopped running.

"I need to…um…I need to find a…find a band-" He hissed in another sharp breath, and seemed to hold it.

"Let it out slow and easy, Will," Benji coaxed. "How about a little '_Unbelievable_' while you tape up your hand, huh? Do you know that one?"

"Yeah…yeah, I can do that one."

"Good. That's good, Will."

Benji didn't let anyone else take the phone until Brandt had fully been able to calm himself down; and by the time they got to his room, he had fallen into an exhausted slumber on the floor, wedged in a corner facing the doorway. Ethan signaled the other two to stay back, and knelt down to gently rest a hand on one of Will's knees. Brandt came to in an instant, and he came up swinging wildly.

"Easy, _easy!_" Ethan yelled as he was forced to pin his struggling agent to the floor.

It took Brandt a little longer than they had hoped for his mind to clear, and he nodded sheepishly once he realized what was going on. "Sorry," he mumbled as Ethan helped him sit up. "Sorry. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Hunt nodded, then caught Brandt's eyes. "Are you?"

"No," Will answered honestly, lowering his gaze. When he looked back up, though, there was a fire in his eyes that they feared had been lost forever. "But I want to be."

Ethan smiled and rested his hand on Brandt's shoulder. "Good. We'll help get you there. Whatever it takes."


End file.
